


Speaks in Tongues

by AlltheB7



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Harry is chaotic good, Harry is rooting for Hermione, Humor, Just people being into people, No specific sex identities, Slow Burn, Trigger warning: Ron eating, but not really, soul mates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:08:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27032434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlltheB7/pseuds/AlltheB7
Summary: Green eyes, dark hair... Speaks in tongues?!Hermione will not be fooled by some two-bit charlatan claiming Harry is her soul mate. Honestly.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Pansy Parkinson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 114





	Speaks in Tongues

The well done up woman with large grey eyes and a plump curve to her shoulders and hips has the audacity to ask “How is your soul mate doing?”

“Harry is _not_ my soul mate.” Hermione laughs at the purported soul-mate finder and smirks. Honestly, it is hilarious—she remembers quite clearly what the “clairvoyant” had said: _green eyes, black hair, initials HP_. The audacity to try to hoodwink her, try to capitalize on their fame from the war.

Deborah Hubbard, aka Wisperia of Wisperia’s Ways, who had initially been investigated on grounds of improper use of magic months ago, is once again in their office. Hermione had gotten one of her “soul mate readings”, and when it turned out the reading utilized no magic, she reported the scam artist to muggle authorities for them to handle. Months later, however, after more allegations and a more thorough search that revealed Ms. Hubbard used a real crystal ball and her own wand during “readings,” Hermione was not so sure the woman was as unassuming as they originally concluded. There is something fishy about her. They hadn’t searched her entire office, just the “reading room,” and Hermione is beginning to think that they are missing something. Just under her ribs she feels the poke of the hunch, the wiggling intangible of the thing driving her to keep pushing.

“I never said your soul mate was male or masculine.”

At this, Hermione’s face screws up, confused. Why would the woman pivot to keep the ruse going? “Are you really going to dig yourself in deeper?” Hermione can barely restrain her snark. “’Green eyes, black hair, speaks in tongues? They have the initials HP.’ Everyone knows Harry and I are close.”

“You asked if your soul mate was ‘ _you know, good at things’_ ,” Deborah retorts, “And from what I could sense in your future, they are.”

Hermione shifts uncomfortably. “What do you mean, my ‘future’?” her tone is almost condescending. The gumption, the _nerve_. She had chosen to get her reading because, between Padma and herself, she has no qualms about dismissing divination fluffery.

The woman rolls her eyes. “I’m not performing magic in front of or to muggles. The law is clear.” Deborah huffs and shifts in her seat before giving Hermione a glare, “And I’m not giving you free information beyond what you’ve paid for. I won’t be swindled by the ministry again!”

Irritated, Hermione steps out and Padma hands her the spelled scroll that is used to detect lies. Glancing over the scratched lines, everything checks out, Deborah wasn’t lying about any of it.

Stuck on the thought, Hermione repeats, “So now she’s hedging that it’s a _female_ with green eyes and midnight hair, that speaks in tongues and has the initials HP?”

Padma deadeyes Hermione. “Can you stop mentioning the tongues part? Also: she hasn’t broken the law—she’s bending it a little, but we checked the crystal ball and wand. Neither show any signs of recent use.”

Hermione finishes the thought, “And because they are real magical items and belong to her, and they weren’t misused…” Hermione groans, “she is within her right to possess them.”

The dry expression on Padma’s face has Hermione sufficiently embarrassed, getting wrapped up in the details instead of focusing on their work. With a huff, Hermione heads to the office where Deborah is sipping her tea as smug as a Malfoy.

* * *

Nursing her Guinness, she is flipping through the Daily Prophet when Harry’s voice pipes up, “How’s my favorite soul mate?”

She scoffs. “ _Wisperia_ is cleared.” She folds the paper up and pushes it to the side. “Turns out she hadn’t used magic in front of muggles, she just uses her wand and crystal ball as props.”

“Well, that’s good,” he says brightly. “No harm done.”

 _Yet,_ she thinks to herself. Having magical items out willy-nilly is dangerous in of itself _._ But Harry is right even if it’s an unsettling situation: no one was harmed.

“Also, she amended my reading: my soul mate isn’t a _he_ , my soul mate is female or femme.”

At this, Harry raises his eyebrows, “Well, well, Ms. Granger, I daresay that does not surprise me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Miffed, Hermione straightens her back and glares.

Seemingly unthreatened, Harry laughs, “It means that you deserve better than some random bloke.” He pauses to think a moment with a grin, “And I don’t think I qualify for gender reassignment without being immensely disrespectful. Being an arse isn’t a gender identity.”

With a sniff, Hermione moves on and they chat while the booth fills up with their usual crowd: Neville, Ginny, Harry, sometimes Zabini and/or Parkinson, though the two are likely to be around, even if they don’t join the booth.

Ron used to be around more when they were married, but since the divorce three years ago, he tends to use his free evenings for...more personal time. Once he apologized for his boorish manners during the divorce, they figured out how to be kind to each other as friends and exes. It took a little, but they are on good terms now.

Next to her, Ginny begins detailing the latest prank her team has pulled and Hermione’s mind begins to wander. Ginny’s describing the echo-charm placed into the opposing team’s showers, but Hermione is looking around the table.

Across from her, Harry listens to Ginny, smile patiently waiting for the punchline. Next to Harry is Neville, who is beginning to go a little glassy-eyed on his Guinness and keeps darting looks at Hannah. Parkinson and Zabini are at the bar down the way a bit, hunched over and keeping their emotionally stunted antics to themselves.

Ron was, probably at this very moment, thrusting his tongue throat-deep in some woman’s mouth; and that woman—though also having made the same mistake Hermione once made—was not alone. Out of everyone here, Hermione is the only one truly alone. Everyone around her looks happy.

Is she happy?

She shakes her head and dismisses the idea of a soul mate being the thing that would “complete” her. How ludicrous. Everyone at the table laughs and Hermione smiles along as she takes a long pull from the Guinness. What had it been that Wisperia said at her reading? _No one completes two, and no two complete one._ Rubbish.

Without thinking, she blurts out, “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“What doesn’t?” Ginny asks.

Harry chuckles, knowing Hermione is stuck, and updates the table on Hermione’s case.

“Oh, wait—Wisperia is real? That’s…kind of really neat,” Ginny smiles.

“She’s a real person, but however she is divining soul mates isn’t muggle and we weren’t able to figure out because she technically hasn’t done anything wrong.”

Ginny shrugs, unconcerned with the technicalities and going for the juicy bits. “So what was it she said about your soul mate again?”

Ticking off the descriptors, Hermione explains, “Green eyes, black hair, initials HP.”

With an eyebrow wiggle, Harry adds, “Don’t forget _she_ speaks in tongues.”

With a groan, Hermione slumps her head onto her arms on the table. At least Padma hadn’t come tonight—she would have added the extra details of _Deborah’s_ brilliant snapback. Which Hermione could admire from an outside perspective. After all, the woman _hadn’t_ really broken the statute, she was technically trying to help people connect with their soul mates, and she didn’t gouge Hermione on her purchased “soul mate search.”

There is a small silence, then, “You know who has initials HP?” Neville smiles happily over his Guinness, “Parkinson.” He raises his finger to the side of his nose and gives a firm nod.

Hermione and Ginny share a look before laughing. “Can you imagine?” Ginny snorts into her pint, “Bringing Parkinson home to Christmas?”

Horror-stricken, Hermione barks out a laugh “Oh, Morgana, no.” She sips the brew, then “Don’t wish that on me, Weasley.”

Neville frowns. “Parkinson’s a good aurr-r,” he hiccups. “She helped Hannah, too,” he supplied vaguely.

“Oh, noted,” Ginny says genially in the tone she uses to keep inebriated people happy. “Thank you, Neville, we didn’t know that.”

Rolling her eyes, Hermione lets her head thunk back against the booth. “Pansy does _not_ have an unknown name. She signs everything PP—which, now that I am thinking of it, sounds entirely—”

“You know,” Harry interrupts, clearing his throat. “Pansy’s first name does start with an ‘H’.”

“So you think my soul mate is Pansy Parkinson?” Hermione raises her eyebrows over her Guinness.

“I wasn’t saying she was! I was only backing up Neville,” Harry points over his shoulder to the tall man who was now nodding proudly.

“How would you know?” Hermione narrows her eyes.

He shrugs. “I hired her, saw the paperwork.”

“And you just happen to remember that fact?”

“Well, not until Neville pointed it out, but I guess so?” Harry looks over to Ginny and back to Hermione. “Am I in trouble for being honest again?” His gaze goes back to Ginny who shrugs and smiles.

With a snort, Hermione rolls her eyes, giving herself time to think through the information. Harry and Neville could be right—Pansy _could_ have a first name that starts with an ‘H’ and that would give her the initials HP.

“You know what,” Hermione concedes, “If her first name starts with an ‘H’ then yes, Pansy could fit the description.”

All four Gryffindors turn to look at the bar where Pansy and Zabini sit. Hannah’s happy face quirks to the side as she smiles and waves. At the motion, Pansy follows the line of sight and all four alumni jolt upright to face each other, except for Neville, who is still looking at Hannah.

“Honestly,” Hermione huffs at their collective immaturity and looks back to the other two aurors and gives a smile and a wave over the noise of the pub.

Confused, Pansy lifts up her pint and a thumbs up with the other hand, mouthing “ok?” Hermione gestures to Neville with his inebriated gaze and rolls her eyes. Pansy takes a gander and shrugs.

* * *

“Okay,” Hermione takes a deep breath and shuffles through the full-report on her desk one more time. During their last girls’ night, Ginny convinced Hermione to owl Wisperia for the full work-up on her purported soul mate: numerology, astrological sign, arithmancy data, etc.

“Just for fun, ‘Miones,” Ginny had said. “Here, I’ll cough up the coin, grab an owl.” And they had done just that—Hermione attached the coinage and note to Wisperia, and now, a month later, she has the report.

_Numerological score: 4_   
_Though partners scored 4 tend to be flighty and impulsive, the potential between 4 and 1 is powerful and enduring—assuming both partners are able to overcome the unknown bumps and obstacles along their path._   
_Astrological sign: Scorpio_   
_Full Initials: HPP_   
_Birthdate: November 19-23*_   
_Lunar Features: Though your soul mate’s moon aspects wax gibbous in Sagittarius, they are rooted firmly under influence of Venus. Overshadowed by their own indecision, your potential partner possesses the dynamic for growth and illumination._   
_The arithmancy surrounding your soul mate is found on page 3._

_*Birthdates for potential soul mates can be difficult to pinpoint when searching through a client’s aura. While Wisperia is an expert, there are aspects to the mystery of love that no one can reveal exactly._  
  
“Darn it,” she whispers, both hands on the desk, quill tucked in her messy bun. Looking over the details Harry had provided (“against my better judgement, mind you”) it all added up.

Pansy Parkinson _is_ her soul mate.

* * *

On their unofficial Friday evenings, Granger usually keeps to her crowd—Neville, Potter, Weasley, et al, but lately, the woman has been encroaching more and more into her space. Sipping her martini, Pansy watches as Granger meticulously steps about Leaky in this familiar dance she has been doing for weeks. Keeping her eye out, she watches as the woman begins: first in with a paper and Guinness, await the gathering friends, then slowly drift about until she inevitably lands at the bar to order a second Guinness that will remain mostly untouched as she leans on the bar and makes small talk with Zabini and herself.

At first she thought Granger had been angling towards Zabini—he’s attractive, well-bred, and polite. More polite than herself, at least. Not to mention that Zabini _had_ bet Pansy that he’d get into Granger’s pants. She had laughed and told him that he had a year. The curated eyebrow and smirk twitched on his beatific features as he arrogantly asserted, “A month, six weeks, tops.”

Well, now firmly two months into the future, Pansy smirks into her cosmo with a twist. The vodka cuts between her teeth and she delicately pulls the glass away as Zabini returns from the loo and Granger begins her circuitous route towards them.

“Do be a gent and cover my tab, tonight,” the woman drawls, purposefully eyeing Granger.

“My dear,” Zabini smiles, “I would, were I a gent.”

“Really,” she murmurs, eyes lighting up as she notes that Granger now stands by her table, talking animatedly with her hands. “Interesting.”

Another thirty minutes and Granger has landed next to Zabini to order another Guinness and inquire about their work week.

Pansy keeps her eyes on Granger’s face as the woman speaks, parsing the words through the haze of Leaky and context of time. If she had come for Zabini, but had not yet broken this routine, that leaves quite an interesting edge to things.

* * *

“Do you believe in soul mates?” Granger asks point-blank one evening. Her brown eyes have drifted about since Zabini stepped out to chat with Ronald.

Souls are for muggle religion and dark magic, Pansy figures, and most times, the two overlap much too comfortably for her liking. For wixen like herself, however, souls are purposeless.

“Some people do,” Pansy smirks as she sips.

This response furrows Granger’s brow and the dark-haired woman lets her eyes drift casually over the curls that Granger let down at some point. There is a dent in the wavy portion near her crown, where it had been restrained in a messy bun, and it is calling for a smoothing charm or relaxing potion. It would be simple to mention it, simple to run fingers through it with a whispered smoothing spell, but it would not be simple to mention it without offending the woman. Pansy’s eyes come back to Granger and she sips again, relishing the silence.

“I asked if _you_ believed in soul mates,” Granger’s eyes narrow.

“And what would that accomplish?” Pansy realizes that Zabini would know how to handle this question; he is, after all, Italian. He is quite familiar with that Catholic muggle tradition. Of course, it would be simple to answer simply: _What good is a soul, what use have I to mate it?_

With a roll of her still-bushy-but-now-shaped eyebrows, Granger snorts with a small smile. It is quite encouraging, and so Pansy does her best to be amenable.

“No, I don’t believe in soul mates,” Pansy replies. “The notion of _mating_ with anyone sounds abhorrent.”

Another roll of dark eyes and a chuckle this time. “It’s a phrase, Parkinson.” The smile stretches wider over the Guinness and then firms over the rim as she watches Pansy in return.

With a shrug, Pansy smirks back. “Well, with such unfailing logic, Granger, I suppose I still don’t believe in soul mates.”  
  


* * *

At first it had been amusing that Granger kept coming by, but now it was becoming invasive, Pansy realized, as Granger made herself at home across from the lunch table. The woman has discovered her lunch spot and approximate time and Pansy isn’t entirely sure that Ronald Weasley isn’t to blame. She will have to determine how to punish her partner for disclosing her most private of lunch times.

“You know,” Granger points with a pinky attached to a hand that is holding a rather delicious smelling Cuban sandwich, “I was named after my mother.”

In her mind, Pansy imagines a bushy-haired faceless creature standing next to another featureless creature in boring slacks and bites into her Rueben.

“Mm,” Granger hums through closed lips with a nod while chewing. She finishes chewing and looks to Pansy, “My full name, Hermione Jean Granger. Jean was my mother.”

Pansy waits a moment, weighing the appropriate response and unsure whether to ask _was_. She hedges. “Jean sounds lovely.”

Granger tips her head to the side, just so, and dead pans her lunch partner.

Pansy rolls her eyes, “Okay, Jean sounds boring. What were you expecting?”

The brown eyes narrow again, calculating, and Pansy can feel there is something here that isn’t being said.

“What’s your full name?”

“My full name? As opposed to my half name?”

A healthy bite from the Cuban and the shorter woman's face screws up in chewing thoughtfulness. Taking a draught from the flask, she tosses the thick braid back over her shoulder and clears her throat as her eyes light up mischievously. It is a terribly endearing look that would work on weaker-minded wixen.

“Is it Pansy Patricia Parkinson?” she guesses. “Are you a triple P?”

Pansy’s lip curls up in revulsion. “You’re a member of the ministry, Ms. Granger, why not look it up?”

At this, Granger’s brow draws down, “Well, that’s hardly respectful.”

Pansy laughs, “And Pansy Patricia Parkinson is?”

* * *

With the word that Avery’s cousin had popped up in England with a few not-so-smart-but-still-resourceful goons, it is an all-hands on deck meeting and Pansy is running late, having been woken by the thwump of the emergency owl at her window. Rubbing her face, she groans into her palm as the elevator doors finally begin clattering closed.

“Hold up!” a woman calls rather desperately.

Pansy sneers into her palm and sighs as a hand shoots between the grates and they clatter open once again. There is a bustle of papers and then a waft of familiar in the air. “Granger?”

“Oh, hey,” her voice is near breathless from the jog. Granger’s tight features loosen just a bit as she begins taking in Pansy’s attire. Her brow furrows in a way that has become predictable. “I didn’t recognize you.”

“Well, now you know do,” Pansy volunteers of her joggers and t-shirt under the auror robes. She clears her throat and blinks slowly. She should have gone to bed instead of finishing paperwork. Having wrapped up their most recent case yesterday, she spent the majority of the night on reports, banking on having the next day off with the close of the case.

“Here.” With much careful ado of getting the paperwork on the floor, Granger spells it in place and steps closely as the car jerks and sways. Placing one hand gently behind Pansy’s neck and murmuring an incantation, the fingertips on her other hand circle over Pansy’s forehead. She feels a warmth wash through her, as if liquid sleep is moving in her veins, and then a coolness. The aches have lessened, and she feels refreshed compared to just a moment ago.

Pansy opens her eyes to find Granger staring.

The grates clatter and Granger springs away just as fussily, gathering her stacked reports, Pansy wrapping her robes about her as she is out the car.

* * *

Blaise convinced her to come back to Leaky with the tantalizing offer of covering her tab.

Sitting in front of Abbott’s fish and chips, Pansy has to agree it had been a decent idea to come out.

“Granger propose yet?” Blaise murmurs over his beer with a laconic grin.

Rolling her eyes, Pansy laughs in the good humor she is sure he does not have. “No need to be a sore sport,” she drawls.

The grin twitches in silent laughter. “She isn’t subtle, but…” he trails off, weighing his words.

When nothing comes, Pansy pouts, “Either finish that sentence or have the good sense to start another.”

Zabini looks out the window and his brow furrowed. “I think she slept with me to get information about you,” he says painfully confused.

Pansy tosses her head back and laughs. It’s been a while since Zabini pulled a joke. “Did you mention I was better hung?”

Having the humor to pull an affronted look first, Zabini chuckles and pulls a face, considering. “A lady never kisses and tells,” he says with a wink. Then more seriously, “If she isn’t interested in you, she’s interested in something about you.”

Pansy considers his words and their potential meanings. She has nothing to hide—she had to give up so much to even be accepted into academy, let alone be instated. The ministry knows more of her secrets than she does at this point. If Granger wants to know something, she figures the woman knows it already.

Taking a sip from the cosmo, she licks her lips and looks to the man next to her. “Well, if you didn’t dress like that, she wouldn’t have gotten the wrong idea.”  
  
  


* * *

It has been nigh four months and Pansy has no idea what Granger is actually about, so she corners the only person she knows she can press without getting into too much trouble.

“Come on, Ronald,” she cajoles from the cramped muggle coupe that they were assigned for stakeout, “I know you know something.” She shifts her legs, trying to find an adequate angle for her knees.

“Parky,” he says around the Berts Botts in his mouth and then swallows, “I’m more scared of Mione than I am of you.” Another handful of candy is palmed to his open maw and Pansy turns back to the night around them, peering into the dark, doing her best to tune out the sounds of mastication.

“Alright, no threats then,” Pansy pivots, “Just tell me what Granger is on about.”

Another wide-mouthed swallow and Pansy sneers.

“What?” the Weasley asks. “I’m hungry.”

“Just tell me, your partner, why your ex-wife keeps asking me random questions,” Pansy puts it as plainly as she could for the man.

The bag is upturned and the remains are dumped pell-mell into the wet orifice. It is possibly one of the most disgusting things she has ever seen happen and she looks at autopsy photos for a living.

“Believe it or not, Parky,” he drawls, “my ex does not tell me her deep dark secrets anymore.”

Looking beyond his pasty face, she catches movement, “Oy, Weaz, look.”

Thank Merlin they picked a good spot.

* * *

It’s been five minutes and it’s just Pansy and Harry at the bar. Taking her cosmo over to the booth, she sits across her mussy boss and contemplates the best course of action.

“Granger’s being weird,” she throws out, obviously fishing.

Harry laughs. “All muggles are weird to your kind,” he grins.

She decides to posture, letting her hackles rise. “Am I being investigated?” The unspoken _again_ is implied.

Harry’s eyes narrow, “Why would you be investigated?”

She gulps the majority of the cosmo. “Don’t mess with me, Potter,” her voice is low. She won’t let him see her afraid, but they both know she can be scared just like the rest of them. She isn’t in this moment, but with people like Harry, showing fear helps put them at ease.

A slow smile begins spreading on his face and Pansy has the urge to kick him in his sack. A silent retort, she smiles back, all teeth.  
Looking over his shoulder before turning back to Pansy, he leans forward. “You didn’t hear this from me, but Hermione thinks you might be her soul mate.”

“What?” Pansy scoffs. She’s about to hex his jollies off for jerking her around when he puts a hand on the table.

“Seriously,” he continues. “Ministry of Misuse of Magic had an investigation last year. Claims of a seer exposing muggles to magic.” He smirks and says with a wiggle of his eyebrows, “Wisperia.”

“There’s no such thing as soul mates,” Pansy counters. “Only muggles believe in that rubbish.”

Harry leans back with a shrug, “Well, this seer divined her soul mate had green eyes, midnight hair,” he smirks, “and has the initials HP.”

Snorting, Pansy’s head snapped back. “So…you.”

“Not me—a woman.” Potter eyes Pansy carefully and adds, “And her soul mate also _speaks in tongues_.”

Pansy’s brow furrows, “And how exactly would she know my full name?” She is not going to let him try to distract from that detail with the sexual innuendo. This explains Granger’s fumbling attempts to coax her full name out of her.

“Neville,” he laughs and then points, “But we never gave her your name, just the initial.”

Rolling her eyes, Pansy begins resenting pureblood tradition of home-schooling children together and that his _Gran_ insisted he be included with her class. Neville is beginning to make her regret her charity. “That doesn’t make sense. There have to be thousands of women like me.” Her mind begins tallying the number of women she knows in Ireland alone who would match her description.

With a shrug, Harry drank his beer. “If she doesn’t think so, she must think _something_ if she bothers with you.” The joke is in good humor and Pansy smirks in response.

“Even if she’s muggle-born, I find it hard to believe Granger would go for that,” she repeats.

A laugh from the dark-haired man. “Whether or not she believes it, the results are the same. Bet?”

“Alright. I’ll prove it isn’t me,” she says, tossing back her drink and then standing.

Another shrug and drink. Then a smile on his shaven face. “Oh?” he poses and drinks again.

“I don’t do paperwork for a month if I’m right,” Pansy arches an eyebrow.

“Deal,” he agrees. “And if I’m right, you let Gin and I use that chalet Neville talked about over the winter.”

Narrowing her eyes, Pansy considers the value of her private retreat.

“Three months of no paperwork, then,” she adjusts.

“Shake on it,” Harry says, hand out.  
  
  


* * *

“Are you allergic to cats?” Granger asks, blowing gently on the chai in her hand.

Over the curly-hair, Harry wiggles his eyebrows at Pansy and mouths with a nod, “Loves kneazles.”

“Does undying dislike count as an allergy?”

Granger laughs and points out, “No allergy then.”

“No pets,” Pansy asserts.

“Have you considered having kids?”

Pansy nearly chokes on her earl grey. “Like I said, no pets.” Her supervisor nearly chokes on his beer and silently laughs behind his best friend. What a prat. Why did she drag herself and Zabini over to their booth again? She looks over to see Weasley chatting about quidditch with Zabini and sneers.

Merlin, how did she get stuck with Granger in this arrangement?  
  


* * *

Long week did not begin to cover the last month of witch hunting. Avery again slipped out of their hands and their sources in France had been able to track him until he hit Morocco. After that, the magic trail disappeared. Pop, apparition, black market portkey, and now, nothing.

Elbows on the bar, she’s nursing a whiskey, foregoing the usual. The crowd isn’t here; Ginny is on away games and Harry and Neville are running the taskforce currently trying to find enough paper to wipe their collective arse after letting everything fall through their fingers.

“Heard things fell apart. Sorry,” Granger offers, taking Zabini’s spot. The idiot is out front, chatting with Weasley. It’s a good thing the two aren’t partners because they would indubitably end up spending more time waxing each other’s egos than doing work.

After an episode where Granger asked about her thoughts on window dressings, Pansy had begun avoiding Hermione, switching lunch breaks with Weasley, eating at her desk, staying later, leaving early. She has had a month of blissful solitude and Thai curry, witch hunt aside.

“Shit happens,” Pansy quirks an eyebrow. “Padma doesn’t come around as much,” she changes the topic over the sweeter blend. This one was finished in cognac barrels and she relishes the caramel flavor that lingers after she sips.

A chuckle escapes Granger’s lips and she looks over her shoulder at the Pansy. “Seriously?”

“What?” Pansy asks as she begins contemplating how to turn this conversation upside-down on Granger.

“Don’t be obtuse, Parkinson,” Granger chastises with a roll of her eyes and drinks.

After a long moment of silence, Pansy makes a face as if to say ‘well?’

Hermione purses her lips. “You think she wants to hang out with the woman who thought she was her sister?”

“That was a mistake,” still holding the whiskey, Pansy points a long finger over the drink and snorts. “She set me up for failure. How was I to know she hadn’t changed her outfit?”

“You came to the pub with her,” Hermione deadpans.

Taking a deep breath, Pansy leans forward and motions for Granger to follow. When the dark eyes are close Pansy confesses with a glint in her eye, “I might have wondered if they kissed the same.”

Granger’s eyes immediately flick down before she leans back and clears her throat. “Incorrigible.”

“Curious,” Pansy counters, beginning to feel the curl of mutual attraction unfurl in her gut. She smiles, knowing how she is going to turn Granger away without ever uttering a single word.

“Inconsiderate.”

“Fascinated with inconsistencies.”

“Short-sighted,” Granger tilts her head with a residual smug expression from Hogwarts.

“Living for the present,” the dark-haired woman hums, and then smirks with a flirtatious shrug. “All true, though.”

The curls shake and Granger sighs.

“So?” Pansy postures with an arched brow. She knows her robes accent things decently without being inappropriate and she knows Granger has noticed.

“So, what?” Granger asks back.

Her voice drops into velvet, “Are _you_ curious?”

The reaction in Granger is immediate: flushing cheeks, straightening of her back, dodgy eyes. The smirk she feels spread across her face is warm and teasing and she bites her lip. Even though it’s been ten years since the Battle, there remains a big-eyed innocence about Granger that draws Pansy against her better judgement, so when Granger gathers her courage and raises her chin with an almost defiant, “Yes,” Pansy beams in delight.

“You know your ex-husband is my partner,” Pansy leans forward slowly while explaining the inherent incongruity of their ‘soul mating’.

“I am aware, yes,” the woman’s eyes travel down and she licks her lips.

“Grab your gusset, Granger,” Pansy murmurs as she’s sliding a hand around the back of Granger’s neck. Pulling the woman more firmly than is necessary, she quickly angles her mouth and all but tongue-punches the woman’s throat. At Granger’s first groan of confusion and push of distaste, she closes her eyes against her grin and angles her mouth to the other side and sucks Granger’s tongue in between her teeth. It’s all teeth and tongue and makes Pansy think of the first fumblings she had with boys in school. Artless.

With considerable effort, Granger pushes Pansy back and clears her throat as she wipes an entire palm across her lower face and tries to get her breath back.

Letting the smirk play across her face, Pansy waggles her eyebrows. It was the worst kiss she has ever given anyone, and at the horror-stricken expression that Granger is trying to mitigate, she bites the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing out loud.

“Oh, wow,” Granger clears her throat again and takes a deep pull on the Guinness.

“I’d say,” the taller woman agrees, letting her self-satisfaction roll out from her as her ‘soul mate’ fidgets on her stool.

After a stilted five minutes, the woman finishes her Guinness and finally looks back to Pansy, hesitation writ across her face like a death knell. Face neutral, Pansy knows that Granger is terrified that she’ll want to kiss her goodnight.

“Well, I think I’ll be off, now. It was nice to chat, like always,” she says a bit faster as she gathers her messenger bag and ducks away.

“Of course, of course,” Pansy waves her off, “Take care!”

Just what a soul mate ordered, she thinks.

Hannah drops the check a while later and tilts her head at her. “Should I be concerned?”

With a wink, Pansy smirks. “Nah, we’re soul mates.”

* * *

Granger has come up from her office and waves kindly at Pansy. Clipboard in hand, Pansy imagines the woman is on a work errand. But this is also an opportunity to poke more fun, so she smiles genially.

“Haven’t seen you in a bit,” she murmurs softly to Granger, gazing gazes deeply into Granger's dark eyes before motioning as if to kiss her again.

Granger turns her head aside, hand to her shoulder with a firm “There is another case of misuse of magic in regard to illegal trade and I was hoping to see Harry.” She holds up the clipboard up, a weak muggle shield, with her big-eyed expression between them.

Adopting a smug expression, the auror smiles. “Of course, let me get him,” she offers.

* * *

A week later, Granger is up in their office again and Pansy leans forward, mischief in her eyes. "Couldn't keep away Granger?"

"Parkinson," she hears from Potter's direction and looks over to see the man at his doorframe. He raises a parchment as they make eye contact and Pansy leans over Granger, overconfident and cocky. "Saved by Potter," she whispers over the woman's hair by her ear, "But we can finish this later. The Leaky?"

To her credit, Granger does her best to look not appalled when Pansy winks at her.

* * *

Pansy watches the woman squirm as she crowds her at the bar, silently letting the tension grow. It's delectable watching Granger be uncomfortable when the woman is usually so confident, so self-contained. It is hilarious. She thinks that contrast of Granger's uncertainty against her usual assuredness is—at the very least—amusing. As she goes to kiss Granger goodnight, mouth wide, Granger covers her mouth with a couple fingers and a pained expression. "How about no tongue this time?"

"Oh?" Pansy's hiding the grin pulling at her cheeks by adopting a surprised expression.

Granger fumbles for a moment. "I, um—I think I may have come down with a cold." She gestures towards her neck with a couple of fingers and clears her throat weakly, "I wouldn't want to—ahem—get you sick."

Nodding in conciliation, Pansy smiles and pecks her cheek. “Of course.”

* * *

Pansy steps into the elevator and Granger jumps on last second. Grinning widely, Pansy runs her tongue along her top teeth and smiles at the fellow ministry officer. “I remember being in here with you before,” she murmurs.

The bushy-haired woman's eyes round and her nostrils flare in alarm as she pulls up short, clutching the clipboard over her chest. "Oh, I wouldn't want to..."

Granger cringes and bustles out of the car in a clear state of relief when it stops.

"You don't want to kiss me?" she calls out after the heavy plait, smiling widely at the retreating form.

* * *

"I'm taking house points if you keep stalking me." Pansy snarls, stomping down the hallway in her mucked up robes. Chasing down Avery's wily cousin out in the rainy countryside was not in her plans today. Being blasted onto her back wasn't, either, so when she slipped on a cow pie, nearly stupifying her own face, the embarrassment was as bad as the smell. Last thing she needs is Granger sniffing about while she is at her worst.

And what did Granger want anyway? Another bloody muggle ditty? And how did she keep managing to track her down? Pansy contemplates her tentative friendship with Weasley. Has he betrayed what little trust she gave to inform his little mousy ex wife of her goings-on?

Laughing through her nose, Granger sniffs airily, but continues, "There's been another attack. My office received orders for an investigation, but before we barge in, I wanted to make sure your office had the jump." She hands over a new inter-department summons, eyes taking on a worried edge. "Be careful."

* * *

Pansy corners Granger at the pub. "Wanna shove off?" she whispers in Granger’s ear, watches the woman squirm, silently letting the tension grow. Granger’s hesitation feeds her emotional sadism.

Twitching against the intimate contact, Granger sidles to the side with a careful glance and Pansy ignores the small twinge of regret that this joke could truly bother Granger. Taking a deep pull from the dark brew, Granger licks her lips, clearly working through a conflict.

“I thought you were my soul mate,” the words tumble out, taking Pansy completely by surprise. “This,” she waves to the side with a rueful smile, “I just let a… charlatan get in my head, let my mind blindly go astray.” A deep breath and then those soft eyes connect with hers, “But I was mistaken.”

Even though this is exactly what Pansy had wanted to happen, the words sink heavy in her stomach. The look on Granger’s face leaves her chest feeling cramped, and she adopts a feigned expression of offense.

A small chuckle from Granger, “Honestly, the idea that you were interested seemed so…” the grin broadens as the woman regains some confidence, “far-fetched.” As she schools her expression into something more neutral, a bit harder, Pansy makes herself smirk at the comment. “I know,” Granger laughs nervously with a shake of bouncy curls. “I didn’t think you’d actually—” she motions to Pansy’s face and then to her wide lips, “And since, well, since it seems like you’re not pulling my chain, I really can’t—you know—lead you on.” The open expression on Granger’s face twists the liar inside of Pansy’s heart and she huffs.

“Not all of us are worthy of the Hermione Granger, but...” she replies lightly, leaning forward, and whispers, “Just so you are aware, the kiss was a bit…” her hand tipping side to side while wincing. “Not that you did anything wrong, but I thought you should know.” Pansy nods as if she’s giving Granger a helpful tip and bounces her eyes around the pub, looking for the closest exit.

“Me?” the woman immediately sniffs. “Honestly,” Granger exhales through her nose, struggling to be polite and Pansy refrains from laughing as she arrogantly looks down at her. “The same could be said to you, Ms. Parkinson.”

With a diffident shrug, Pansy smirks, glad that Granger is such a good sport and winks. “My reputation speaks for itself. Anyways, I have to get back to my flat, the Lizard needs to be fed.”

Granger’s eyes do the thing where she is computing new information. “You haven’t mentioned having a lizard.”

“You never asked,” Pansy replies breezily as she grabs up her jacket before stepping out to the rainy alley.

As she’s walking away, she hears Granger indignant behind her, “You said no pets!”

* * *

Parvati and Padma have come to their Friday get togethers and Pansy sneers over the rind on the martini glass. They’re all on polite terms, now, but she would rather not stay too long.

“Not going to sit next to Hermione?” Hannah’s voice drifts over the lacquered top.

“Why would I do that?” Pansy arches an eyebrow and sets down the empty glass carefully, picking up the second drink effortlessly and sipping.  
The blonde isn’t like Lavender or Daphne. She is a softer kinder person. Lavender and Daphne often filed their edges—figuratively and literally—clicking them in a display meant to seem effortless without actually being effortless. Their affectations, while genuine, don’t suit Pansy like Hannah’s openness does, which is why Pansy even bothers answering the bartender. Regarding the woman’s features, she looks at Hannah for the first time in quite a while.

With a moment of emotional weakness, Pansy blurts, “You are stunning. I’m happy for you and Neville.”

Hannah flushes, clearly flattered, but embarrassed. “You’re not going to derail me this time, Parkinson,” Hannah laughs, pink lips spreading in a wide smile as she is off to pour some drinks further down the counter.

Alone at the bar, Pansy considers how the year has changed so much and so little. Weasley and she are solid partners (outside of stakeout eating habits), Granger has become an odd fixture in her friendship circle, and almost Friday they all gather in odd numbers. Looking outside again, she doesn’t glimpse Zabini, but she would hazard a guess he is throat-deep in Weasley or the other way around.

The usual Gryffindors wrap around their usual booth, spilling out some with the added numbers. Neville had come by earlier and told her to keep him company, but she isn’t sure she is going to stay long.

The vodka cuts sharp across her tongue and she runs her tongue over her teeth, purposefully ignoring the women in the corner of the booth.  
“I thought you were soul mates,” Hannah interrupts her thoughts and Pansy’s hand jerks, spilling her drink down her forearm.  
“Merlin’s tit!” she yelps, and then glares as she rummages through her robes with her right hand, trying to reach it on her left side where she keeps it holstered. “Warn a witch.”

“Sorry!” Hannah laughs and pulls out a bar rag, wiping the top and her arm. “Can’t have you get sticky on me, can I?” the blonde laughs and winks.

“At least someone would,” Pansy murmurs to herself and lets the smell of cleaner fluid and stale water seep into her skin.

Another cosmo with a twist is set on the counter and Pansy wrinkles her nose. “Think I’ll pass. Going to head home soon.”

Hannah’s brow furrows and her lips purse and she looks over to the familiar booth. Against her better sense, Pansy’s eyes track the line and find Parvati leaning closely against Granger and nuzzling her hair. She nods to herself. Parvati is kind.

“You know Parvati is the third woman Hermione’s dated in the last three months,” the barkeep says over her shoulder as she shakes a drink and pours. “Can’t seem to find what she’s looking for, it would seem.” The warm brown eyes connect seriously with Pansy’s and for the first time in years, Pansy feels judged.

“Good for her,” Pansy says and means it. People should explore their desires romantically and sexually however much they want. It’s no crime to have desires and needs. Not yet, at least. She takes a sip to have something to do that isn't talking.

The cosmo gathers condensation and Pansy eyes it a while, thinking to herself. In the midst of nothingness, she feels a warm body bump into her and startles. “I’m hexing the next woman who startles me,” Pansy growls as Granger settles onto the stool next to her, Guinness empty and set soundly on the bartop.

The keen eyes narrow on Pansy and it takes a bit of effort not to back away from the intensity of Granger’s stare. “Are you smelling my latest successfully closed case?”

“Neville says you have a cat,” there’s another full Guinness in front of Granger’s lips as she accuses over the rim.

“Neville also says I’m nice,” Pansy snarks with an arched brow.

A hard and sharp poke jabs her bicep, “You lied.”

“Ow.” Pansy scoffs at the woman. “How so?”

“You said you didn’t like cats.”

“I don’t like cats.”

“And you said no pets.” Granger glares, mind clearly working through something in her mind. Pansy pulls out her wallet and begins dropping bills on the counter for Hannah and gives a small wave when she catches her eye.

“Lizard isn’t a pet.” Eyeing the drink, Pansy takes a large gulp, nearly finishing it and setting it down. “Hey, I’m really beat, I’m going to head out,” Pansy tosses her chin towards the door, ignoring Granger’s eyes that are tracking everything from her hands to her face.

A hand drops on to her arm and Pansy’s eyes immediately lock onto it as she sets her jaw. She unclenches it and drops her eyelids as she turns to Granger. “You work on your kissing?” Running her tongue over her top teeth, she sees Granger’s nostrils flare, but she doesn’t pull away.

“I don’t know that we should,” Granger’s eyes fix to Pansy’s mouth a fraction longer before looking up to her eyes with a question, “But I would like to talk to you more tonight.”

A flip in Pansy’s gut has her wanting to say ‘yesyesyes!’ but she remembers that this is all a ruse, it’s a made up thing by Granger’s case from last year. She opens her mouth to explain she would love to, but her mouth shapes out the sentence, “That’s nice,” quite abruptly as she heads for the door.

* * *

  
  
Ronald drops the case file on her desk along with his wide mitts and leans down to glare at her. “Are you mental?” he asks in that nasal tone.

Leaning back from the still-strong-but-not-as-strong-as-it-used-to-be cologne, Pansy laughs with her mouth closed to avoid the taste. “According to my last eval, I’m a certified ray of sunshine and contributing member of the DMLE.”

His blue beady eyes narrow unattractively as he leans closer. “Did you really turn down Hermione?”

“No. She turned me down,” Pansy huffs.

At that, he seems to perk up, but then, “Why would she turn you down?” Ron straightens with a twisted question on his doughy face.

“Because I’m a bad kisser?” Pansy provides.

The red hair flops softly on his face after he whips it back to her, “You kissed my ex-wife?” he glares.

Laughing at the man’s posturing and how he can’t figure out if he is upset by everything or not, Pansy leans closer, “She wanted me to.”

“Isn’t there a code that you don’t date a partner’s partner?” Ron huffs as he settles into his chair across from her and scoots back to her desk, giving up the intimidation routine and opening the file.

“So you’re not deep throating Zabini?” Pansy snorts.

The teeny blue beady eyes round and his mouth gawps until he snaps it shut. “You’re not seeing him,” he grumbles.

Pansy laughs. “Yeah,” she says as she turns back to the file. “First thing’s first, Weasley, let’s do work.”  
  


* * *

A cup of earl grey is set firmly in front of her and Granger plops down. “You’ve been avoiding me again,” she narrows her eyes and then leans back with a generous air, “But I forgive you.”

“All my woes are now shed,” Pansy drily retorts into the Rueben she has grown to dislike, but won’t stop making for lunch.

Granger settles into the seat across from Pansy and smiles kindly. It reminds Pansy of Hannah’s smile, of Hermione from a year ago. Fishing a book from her bag, Granger sets it on the table and opens it as she sits across from Pansy.

“Do you need something, Granger?”

 _Great Expectations_ lowers and Granger cocks her head to the side, considering. “No, I don’t think so,” she replies absently before raising the book again.

* * *

“Which would be better for my couch?” Hermione holds up two throw pillows, one with tassels and a diagonal pattern and another with plaid stripes. She wonders how it has come to this, letting Granger drag her out _shopping._

Unable to help herself, Pansy quips, “Is the couch going to the salvation army?”

Scoffing in indignation, Hermione screws up her face and throws the tassels at Pansy, “Really!”

Catching the pillow, Pansy drops the expression. “How am I to know? I’ve never been to your flat,” she snorts.

“And whose fault is that?” Granger returns, swiping the braid over her shoulder and she moves to another shelf of pillows. This time she picks one up with a stitched outline of an orange cat and holds it up, eyes alight.

“My allergies are already acting up,” Pansy comments, peering at the pillow as if it might contain asbestos.

Growling, Hermione shoves the pillow back and grabs Pansy’s bicep, “Forget shopping, let’s get a cup,” she decides.  
  
  


* * *

Perched on the corner of Granger’s overstuffed couch, Pansy sneers at the orange thing that keeps rubbing her shins and her feet. It’s adorable and she wants to pick him up, but she told Granger she didn’t like the things. Gripping the cup, she refrains.

“What’s your astrological sign?” Granger asks as she taps repeatedly at the electronic folding clipboard thing she calls a “laptop” that is on the coffee table in front of her. Granger said that she was going to find potential dates on her line. Whatever that means.

“We’re soul mates and you don’t even know my sign?” Pansy scoffs. “I’m offended.” The orange furball patters over to her shoes and shoves its dumb-looking face into her shoe. The squashy face rubs inside, apparently enjoying the heel. Tucking a foot back, Pansy hopes her feet don’t smell too bad today.

“I’m going to put scorpio because you mentioned your birthday is in November,” the bushy hair drifts down from the sharp shoulders and she bites her upper lip. Then adds, “And because you’re being a twat.”

With a nod, Pansy concedes. “Such is the burden.”

“Favorite color? Favorite dish?”

“Purple. Almost any thai.”

“Favorite number? Animal?” Granger taps away, clearly focused on the task at hand.

“Twenty-one, erumpets,” she answers and takes a deep breath looking over the bookshelves.

“First name and middle name, have your last name,” Granger requests flatly, grabbing the half ball and twitching it over the pad next to the laptop. It’s distracting and Pansy wants to throw the entire thing out the window.

“Pansy Parkinson,” she replies.

The brown eyes dart up and her brow furrows over them. “I know for a fact you have three names. Harry told me you have a full name.”

Tossing back the last of her Ceylon, Pansy looks at the dregs. “Hippolyta,” she offers.

“First or middle?” Granger goes back to the laptop as if Pansy had just as easily said “Justin” or “Claire.”

“First.”

A small _hmph_ escapes the woman’s mouth and she grips the ball again. “Hippolyta Pansy Parkinson,” she murmurs to the object with a small smile.

Striding over to the kitchen around the wall, Pansy sets the kettle on the stove and picks up the electric cord. If the former Gryffindor makes one comment about _hippos_ or being _polite_ , she’s getting hexed. She understands electric cords, at least, and plugs it in before setting the knob. There. She sniffs at the thing and tries not to feel out-of-place in the small kitchen with kitten salt-and-pepper shakers and a trivet in the shape of a book. The tin Granger used for the tea is still on the counter and she spoons the leaves into the diffuser carefully as Granger calls out questions.

“Circle or square?” “Tall and thin or fat and short?” “Favorite book?” “Poetry or prose?”

Pansy answers absently as the kettle whistles and she pours the water and casts a _tempus._

“Silk or velvet?” “Hot or cold?” “Cat or dog?” “Ice or chilled?”

Drifting to the fridge, Pansy opens it and peers inside, pulling out a package of cheese. Cheddar will do, she figures as she answers.

Pretty soon Granger finishes up and they are off to Leaky for Harry and Ginny’s anniversary night.  
  


* * *

  
Squished between Neville and Ginny, Pansy frowns at Harry, who smiles broadly at her packed seating arrangement. He is sharing his side of the booth with Granger and Padma, both of whom are significantly slighter in build and he looks comfortable. Leaky is packed tonight and Pansy has a bad feeling lingering in her gut.

“Pansy got a lead on Avery,” he mentions without details and Ron grunts around the fish and chips as he sits atop the stool at the end of the table.  
“Good job,” Granger beams, and Ginny smiles genially next to her.

If Pansy thought she could drink her martini without someone bumping her on one end or the other, she’d be two deep already. Eyeing the drink, she purses her lips and lets the conversation move on to other things—the ministry’s interest in educating wixen on the muggle technology to help avoid wixen mishaps and reduce the number of obliviations each year, Luna’s position as lead editor of Quibbler, etc. In the banter, people pipe up or laugh or get shouted at and Pansy looks up to see Granger watching her with a frown.

Raising an eyebrow, Pansy silently questions her friend.

Granger raises her hand and murmurs an _accio_ and a straw drifts to her hand. She drops the thing into Pansy’s cosmo and winks.

“So does anyone believe in soul mates?” Harry pipes up and Pansy groans. _Not again._ Looking up, Granger rolls her eyes and smiles at Pansy. It is soft and warm and Pansy wonders if anyone has mailed Hermione about the absurd dating profile she posted for Pansy.

With a snort, Ron blurts, “’Course not.” His usual pasty face is a bit glum since Zabini requested to be transferred to a different department, citing a need to “expand skillsets.” Zabini never mentioned it, but she knew they had had a falling out of some kind. She suspects Blaise bet against Chudley making the final bracket.

Neville shrugs, “They could be real, but I don’t think they have to be followed,” he explains. “I’m not sure I would want to know Hannah wasn’t meant-to-be. I am happy.”

“So your proposition against soul mates isn’t their existence, it’s that the idea of a singular person being _the one_ takes away the happiness you have found on your own,” Granger counters. “So it isn’t the idea of soul mates that bothers you, it’s the idea of being stripped of free will.”

“Oy, the man’s got a decent idea,” Ron argues. “Right, Parky?”

At this, Granger’s eyes light up and she mouths, _Parky_ across the table.

“I think it’s rubbish,” Ginny pops up just because she wants to irritate Ron. “What’s the point of it? Like, the notion that there is someone who is perfect sounds…dumb.” She takes a large gulp of her beer and points at Harry, “That man is not perfect and yet I love his face all the same. I call bullshit.”

At that, the table erupts between the believers and non-believers and Pansy casts a sticking charm on the martini to keep it from being knocked over before she can drink it. Hannah sends over an ocelot patronus, telling them to pipe down.

“What d’you think, Pans?” Harry asks with a smirk and suddenly the table settles down and there is a quiet lull in their racket.

With a shrug, Pansy avoids looking at Granger and downs most of the vodka quickly, “Muggle daydreams,” she determines. “I only trust evidence.”

Glancing over, she notices Granger frown and ignores the pull in her gut.

“Evidence can be faked,” came her immediate retort.

Everyone’s heads swiveled to the woman frowning and Pansy traced a fingertip over the rim of her glass. “Then it isn’t evidence, is it?”

“A soul isn’t tangible, there is no way say trace evidence from something intangible,” Granger’s voice rose a bit. “That’s like saying magic doesn’t exist because we haven’t been able to accurately capture and contain the energy potential of thaums.”

“Thaums interact with tangible objects and energy,” Pansy counters after a thought. “I mean, is there direct evidence of a tangible soul?”

At this, Harry raises his hand, but Granger raises her voice another notch, “Of course we have souls, don’t be a pedant, Parkinson.”

At the drop of her last name, Ginny and Ron connect eyes and go quiet while Harry jumps in, “I don’t think Pansy is saying souls don’t exist—”

“No, I’m quite certain she did and that she can speak for herself,” comes the immediate snap with accompanying stern look.

“I need to use the loo,” Neville blurts from the interior of the booth seat and Ginny and Pansy immediately begin shuffling out in awkward silence.  
Taking advantage of the break in discussion, Pansy heads to the bar to settle with Hannah and get some water.

The table resets with a new arrangement and Pansy hangs back at the bar, making joking observations about patrons to get Hannah to laugh as she passes back and forth. “Is that the bird from Trelawney’s ball gown?” she murmurs as a particularly mean-looking witch enters with gaudy hat on top and Hannah barks out a laugh as soon as she casts a furtive sideways glance.

Water downed, Pansy sets the cup on the bartop as Granger bumps into her again with a low, “I’m sorry.”

“For having beliefs? Not a crime, Granger,” she says easily. “All forgiven.” Looking over the woman’s head, she calculates how long it will take to bid everyone good night and head home. “Night, Han,” she waves as the blonde walks by.

Hannah immediately stops her run and leans over the counter to kiss her cheek since her hands are full. “Be safe,” she smiles as she heads down the counter.

“I didn’t know you could be scared off,” Granger snarks.

“So little you know,” Pansy jests back, but the joke falls a little flat as Granger seems to stop everything and consider it. Rolling her eyes, Pansy bumps Granger back with a “I was joking. I’m fine.”

“I’m headed out, see you Monday?” she offers when Granger remains more solemn.

With a quick nod, Granger side hugs her and they head back to the group where Pansy says goodnight before she heads for the door.

Outside the air is crisp again and she exhales weak streams into the ether of the night. Looking up, she finds the moon near full and makes a note of the silvery light that gently glows more than it shines. A couple more people head into Leaky and leave as she considers her night. It was a good night surrounded by friends and good people.

Turning, she heads down the street to the apparition point. Just as she takes a step into the area and conjures the thought of her living room. The tickle of gathering magic pools behind her navel and a hand grabs on to her arm right before she pops out.

* * *

Landing with a less-than-graceful tottering, Hermione finds herself on the floor as Pansy quickly drops down, inspecting her bits. “Merlin’s tit, Granger!” she nearly yells, lifting arms this way and that, turning her head carefully this way, then that, before her eyes trail down the muggle slacks and rest of her. “Are you alright?”

“I think so,” comes the shaky response. Underneath Pansy, her body thrums and she looks away from Pansy’s throat and chest.

“Bloody hell,” Pansy runs a hand through her own dark hair at the fright. “What was that for?”

“I’ve never seen your flat,” the normally intelligent woman says dumbly.

“What?” she breathes out angrily. “You nearly splinched us because you wanted to see my flat?” Exhaling loudly, Pansy sits back on her bum and regains her breath and senses. “Next time, ask a woman, Granger, it isn’t a secret.”

With her own sneer, Hermione adjusts her loose coat and stands up, wiping her hands on her slacks as she begins taking in décor. “As if you would ever invite me,” she snips, trying to push away her rising anxiety as she takes in the airy look with bold accented colors scattered throughout. And that is the thing, for her, that she knows without discussing: Pansy would never invite her to her flat. Pansy would never cross a line with her. Pansy thinks muggles are ridiculous and that muggle-borns are weird. She is sure that Pansy isn’t a blood purist, but she _knows_ that indoctrination is hard to strip and remove from one’s biases.

Instead of focusing on the things she knows, Hermione purposefully focuses on the things around her she has never seen before. A terrarium with sunlamp and lizard basking inside, stuffed loveseat and armchair with a throw blanket mussed atop the back of the chair, side table adjacent what she guesses is the entry. It is a nice flat, smells like Pansy, but cooler, too. Turning her head back to Pansy, she finds the taller woman eyeing her, jaw set.

"So?” comes the low voice. It is almost threatening, the timbre of Pansy’s voice, and her sharp eyes narrow on Hermione’s face. Swallowing, Hermione considers this is a serious overstep on her part, Pansy prides herself on acting appropriately and is incredibly proud. “Shall I make us a cup then?” her wide lips ask and the accompanying smirk is slightly frightening. She wonders if Pansy looks at suspects like this and how it would feel to be interrogated by her. Part of her excites at the idea of Pansy towering above her, pressing her for information.

“Please,” she agrees, and follows the wide arc Pansy traces around her.

They are standing in the quiet of Pansy’s galley kitchen, holding cups of lady grey when a large grey thing with a pathetic pipecleaner tail struts in and rubs along Pansy’s shins. Bending down, she unceremoniously hauls the chunky thing up and sets it over her shoulder before picking up her tea again.

Hermione glares. “That—” she points, “is a pet.”

Sipping loudly, Pansy tosses black hair over her shoulder and exhales through her nose. “Lizard isn’t a cat.” Another sip, then, “And she isn’t a pet. She is an interloper.” The animal is kneazle then, and wide scary peets stretch out before she relaxes, hanging heavier on Pansy. Lizard is bigger than Crookshanks and it is impressive.

Rolling her eyes, Hermione begins wondering how many things Pansy has lied about. “So do you have any hidden children lying about as well?”

“Look, Granger, I don’t know what you’re about, but this,” she gently arcs the cup around, “isn’t a case. I’m not some…triviality for investigation.” Setting the cup down, Pansy gently sets the grey tabby(?) looking kneazle on the floor and opens a pantry to pull out a bag of food to scoop into her bowl on the opposite wall. Tucking things neatly away, Pansy is talking to the objects, “I found out you thought I was your soul mate and wanted to save you the trouble.” The pantry door closes a little forcefully and Pansy makes direct eye contact for the first time in weeks, “It was funny, and you are sweet.”

Embarrassment burns across Hermione’s chest and up her cheeks. At the sight, Pansy’s eyes dance a little and Hermione doesn’t approve of violence, but without much thought, she whips out her wand and hexes Pansy’s legs. The stinging hex feels like teeth, she knows from experimenting on herself, and she huffs in satisfaction as Pansy cries out and doubles over, clutching her shins. Cup clattering on the counter as she struts out of the kitchen, Hermione’s eyes land on a familiar cream pillow with orange stitching on the loveseat. She hadn’t seen the pillow earlier—she was looking at it from the back. Whipping her head around, she considers casting another hex at Pansy.

Angrily glaring over her shoulder at Hermione, Pansy smirks while rubbing her shins, having removed the hex, but still feeling the lingering pain.

"What? It was a cute pillow.” Then with a wry twist, "Nothing to stop you from getting it."

“You!” Hermione shouts, wand up and face tight and hot, “You are—you are—”

When she doesn’t cast a spell and finish the sentence, Pansy straightens and throws a wordless disarming spell. Hermione has no idea where she pulled her wand from or how Pansy had crossed the space so quickly, but as she is pressed backward into the hallway and against the wall, she notices Lizard is still in the kitchen, face in bowl, unfazed by the action.

“Yes, me, Granger,” Pansy’s smile is smug. “You going to keep hexing your soul mate?” she taunts, lips hovering Hermione’s.

Turning her head to the side to avoid the desire to kiss Pansy, Hermione demands, “Put me down, Parkinson.”

Immediately, Pansy’s biting fingers drop away and she huffs to the loveseat and runs a hand through her mussed long bob, crossing her legs smoothly as her arms stretch over the back.

Clearing her throat and taking the armchair, Hermione carefully perches on the edge. They can discuss this like adults. “Your kneazle is named Lizard.”

“She isn’t _my_ kneazle. She is _a_ kneazle who bum rushed me six years ago and won’t leave,” Pansy rolls her eyes.

“And you named her Lizard,” Hermione deadpans.

“No. I just call her that because I thought it was funny to call her lizard. I haven’t actually named her.”

“And what do you call the lizard?”

“Christopher.”

Hermione huffs. “And Christopher is not a pet?”

“Christopher is a flatmate. Mills wanted to get a pet together and left us after she was transferred to Lisbon. It was just as well because Lizard didn’t like Mills much.” The pale eyes are looking at her hand on the back of the couch, nails gently scraping the fabric seam. “We…have an understanding. I don’t feed Christopher to Lizard and Christopher lets me watch whatever I want on the muggle tv screen.” The tv screen was another addition that Hermione wondered about. Must have come from Millicent.

Unable to hold back the laugh, Hermione feels herself soften as Lizard mrows quietly and headbutts her leg. Holding out her hand, she waits for Lizard to give her an idea of what she wants. The grey fur is rougher than Crookshanks’s and she smiles when the kneazle pushes her head up into her hand. She’s cuter than Crooks, but also more beat up, as if she’s been through a few scrapes. The scars are healed neatly, and she guesses that Pansy probably cared for her while injured.

“So,” Hermione begins carefully. “You aren’t interested in me, after all.” The hot flush of embarrassment crawls up from her gut again, but she forces herself to keep her gaze on Pansy.

“I never said that.”

Anger flashes through Hermione. “Don’t toy with words, Parkinson, we’re adults and can speak plainly, if it’s all the same.”

“Yes, I was trying to prove that I wasn’t your soul mate. No, I don’t believe in soul mates. Yes, I am attracted to you. No, I don’t think we’re compatible.”

“And so you just…led me on,” Hermione blows out a breath and shakes her head.

At that, disdain twists Pansy’s face. “You mean I let you ask questions incessantly and pry into my life without being upfront with me? You mean I acted in friendship after you told me you weren’t interested and I honored that boundary?”

“Honestly, why bother at all?” Hermione counters. “It’s not like you even enjoyed hanging out—”

“Oh, because I don’t tout my opinions and preferences all the time?”

“You took my pillow after saying it was ugly!” Hermione points.

Rolling her eyes, Pansy smirks again. “Because it _is_ ugly.” There is a pause and Pansy lifts her chin, “And because you liked it.”

With a half-laugh, Hermione shakes her head. “Let’s look at the evidence then,” she states flatly and raises her eyebrows when given a dour look. “We’re both attracted to each other—”

“You mean I am to you, you said you weren’t interested,” the auror interrupts.

“Honestly, Parkinson,” she growls back, “stop being dense!” When Hermione clears her throat and settles her nerves, she watches as Lizard pads heavy footed to Pansy and curls next to her side before thumping fatly down with a pigeon-like mew. “Evidence,” she restates, “We’re attracted to each other, we both like animals, we can have conversation—” something about _low bar_ is murmured from the loveseat and she ignores it. “We share a friend group that is supportive, have fulfilling careers.” She stops, rummaging around her mind for other pertinent details.

“You’re a bad kisser,” Pansy drops and Hermione feels herself flush in anger again.

“I am _not_ a bad kisser,” she iterates hotly. “You—” her lip curls as she tries to find words for how utterly violating their kiss had been when it dawns on her that Pansy had possibly done that on purpose and her mind stops. “You kissed me like that _on purpose_?”

“I put my heart into that, of course it was on purpose,” Pansy seems sincere, but it doesn’t make sense. She had asked Padma how her experience with Pansy had gone and her partner had said Pansy was decent enough, nothing fancy. It had made Hermione question Padma’s tastes that she hadn’t remarked on the extensive technique Pansy had used. But this made more sense now. The off-hand question to the fortune teller, inadvertently wanting to know while couched in total disbelief, had left an impact.

Determined, she stands. “Up, kiss me again,” she commands and Pansy huffs.

“I’m not your lackey, Granger, I have nothing to prove to you.”

“I want _evidence_ , Parkinson, and after what you did to me, you _owe_ me. So you're going to kiss me,” she narrows her eyes. "And you're going to do it brilliantly or I'm hexing you again."

“With what wand?”

“I will tell people your full name.”

“Hippolyta was queen of the Amazons, I don’t think invoking my name will work to your benefit.”

“Get your arse up, right this instant, Hippolyta Pansy Parkinson,” she growls, all but stamping her foot. When Pansy finally gives in and steps close, Hermione sucks in a deep breath and looks up, vulnerable and determined. “Honestly, I shouldn’t have to command someone to kiss me. Stop being a dolt,” she disparages.

The taller woman adopts an air. “Oh, well, _thank you_ , Ms. Granger, for this twice-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

With another huff, Hermione slides her hands over Pansy’s shoulders and raises her chin so she can angle her lips properly. For all the times she has spent trying to quell the riot in her gut and the dampness in her knickers, she feels confident this time. “Right then,” she breathes as she feels hands slide hot over her hips and makes brief eye contact with Pansy before pushing up on her toes.

This time there is no pointed tongue jabbing into her mouth, no aggressive wide swipes as if all her teeth are being counted, no wet sucking. This time it is slow and soft. Quiet breaths are held and released as Pansy smoothes her lips until they slot nicely and she sucks gently, drawing Hermione’s tongue into her mouth to tease her. She groans when Pansy squeezes her tighter and draws her closer.

“Wow,” she husks against Pansy’s lips and opens her eyes. Up close, the planes of Pansy’s face are somehow more beautiful, softer. Her toes are still straining, she realizes and drops down the few centimeters while also registering that her hands are in the dark strands.

“Still rubbish, aren’t I?” Pansy murmurs with a smirk.

"I don't know what to think."

"But you believe that crackbasin."

Confused until the malaprop clicks, Granger laughs, “It’s crackpot, not basin.”

“Why would anyone have a cracked pot?”

Hair down about her shoulders, the brown-eyed woman smirks patiently. It smacks entirely of her own expression and Pansy’s mouth twitches, holding back the satisfied grin. “Who wants a cracked basin?”

"Who wants a cracked pot?" the auror poses again.

With a put upon sigh, Granger rolls her eyes. “Honestly, it doesn’t matter. It could be someone else.”

“That’s exactly what I said.”

“So let me gather evidence,” Granger says, eyes softening as she moves up on her tiptoes, chest pressing pleasantly against Pansy.

* * *

If Inspector Granger didn’t stop harassing her Deborah Hubbard was going to file a formal complaint. As it is, she is following the short thing around with her eyes. “I am curiously not able to give consultations at this time,” she drolls.

“That’s alright,” Granger replies easily, “I was actually hoping you’d clear something up for me.”

“I don’t take pictures, I can’t clear anything up for you.” Really, the woman has no right to be in her establishment.

“How do you do it?” the inspector asks, turning to her with a curious and sharp eye. “I know you aren’t using the wand or the crystal ball,” she waves a hand dismissively, “but I know you’ve got something.”

Ah, so. “Perhaps you found your soul mate then?” she questions, feeling a curl of satisfaction.

The shorter woman clears her throat and looks away, “I may have come across someone who…fits the description.”

In spite of the woman being nothing but trouble, Deborah smiles happily. This is why she’s here, after all. “I don’t disclose trade secrets,” she explains.

Looking about, Inspector Granger’s eyes narrow, “But surely you have a method for tracking souls, or qualifying them, or—I don’t know, explaining it?” When she turns, there is a bit of desperation to her eyes.

Deborah considers this, considers there are people who do not believe in the same things or in the intangibility of the universe. Taking in a deep breath she thinks of the filing cabinet where she puts the wavers into magicked folders that absorb an essence and reflect a harmonizing essence. Her father, ever the romantic, had said that their muggle description would be they matched “harmonies in the frequencies of a soul.” And it isn’t even that they are _souls_ , per se, it’s that people can match with a myriad of others and their family’s spells and ancient magic resonate heavily with serendipity, a most fickle of things. People can love a myriad of people a myriad of ways, but combined with serendipity, they could narrow things a bit.

She won’t mention this to Inspector Granger, though. It isn’t hers to know. Instead she smiles and shrugs. “Who explains the universe, Inspector? What is a soul?”

“But you described—”

“Inspector Granger,” Deborah interrupts firmly, “if you don’t have a writ for inspection, and are not looking to purchase anything…” it's not exactly polite, but if the woman is not interested in business and has no legal grounds to snoop, she should be going.

Clearly exasperated, the woman purses her lips and exhales through her nose. “Very well,” she accepts begrudgingly, “Thank you for your time.”

Deborah goes back to her office and checks her appointments. As evening descends, she magics the papers away and locks up. Overall, not a bad day.


End file.
